


Just Breathe

by tj_teejay



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Coughing, Don't Try This At Home, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pneumonia, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tj_teejay/pseuds/tj_teejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt catches a cold. And because he has monumentally bad judgment, he goes out Daredeviling. In November. With his senses shot. And then it’s not a cold anymore, and pneumonia comes knocking. Just perfect timing that Foggy is out of town, too. Matt is neither amused nor prepared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Breathe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whitchry9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/gifts).



> Written for whitchry9 for the Daredevil Secret Santa Gift Exchange. The prompt was: “Anything with Matt being sick, preferably pneumonia, because I have a desperate need for it.”  
> So do I, dear recipient. This was the most perfect prompt in the universe. But I will admit I had help from fellow Dd nerds plotting out some of the details (thank you, thank you, thank you, especially [Ash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentumDeferred/pseuds/MomentumDeferred) for the beta and the helpful pneumonia advice!). I hope I did the prompt justice. _[bites fingernails]_ And I kinda feel like I filled my own prompt right here, to be honest. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.  
>  Also, don’t try this at home. If you have pneumonia, see a bloody doctor, okay? Treating it at home is not indicated. It’s just because it’s Matt, you know? ;-) Warning for pneumonia-related squick (i.e. hacking up gross stuff and puking).  
> Last but not least… **Merry Christmas, Devils!**  
>  This is set at an undetermined time after season 1 (in November, because... reasons)

Matt had never considered himself a kid person. He still didn't, but he had to admit that he actually very much liked spending time with the children at the community center.

It had been Father Lantom's doing, mostly. Matt had agreed to help out in a bind, when one of the chaperones for a surprise party had called in sick on short notice. He'd stuck with it ever since, because the children seemed to love having the ‘cool, blind guy’ around, and Father Lantom always had a big smile on his face when Matt talked about it.

However, what Matt didn't like so much and had to learn the hard way, was that the young ones also tended to be germ motherships. He'd found himself at the receiving end of that particular fact a few days ago, when his throat had started to hurt overnight, and his nose began to tickle.

The cold hit him badly, like it always did. By day three, he was running a mild fever, dripping more body fluids he thought could ever collect in his head from his nose, and tumbling around in a world gone hazy with dulled senses and clogged ears.

He dragged himself to work the first two days, then Foggy insisted he stay home and rest, which he hated but did anyway. There was mother-henning, and chicken soup, and lots of hovering, and Matt was equal parts grateful and annoyed.

By the time Thursday afternoon rolled around, Foggy paid another visit and patted his knee with a concerned frown. “Hey, listen, buddy. I’m gonna call my parents and tell them I’m cancelling my trip, cause you’re still a sweaty, gross lump of blankets. I’ll be back tomorrow with more useless home remedies.”

“No,” Matt insisted, suppressing the urge to cough. “Foggy, you’ve been looking forward to this trip for a long time. You haven’t seen Candace in… how long? There’s no way I’m letting you cancel that for me. I’ll be fine. It’s just a cold. I’ll be okay in a day or two.”

He hoped he’d put up his best boss-dad voice on. And maybe he had, because Foggy was wavering. “Are you sure?”

“A hundred percent.”

“You call me if you need anything. Or Karen. Or Claire. We’re here to help, buddy.”

“Yeah,” he said weakly.

“All right, well, I gotta go pack my shit. You want me to come by tomorrow before I leave?”

“No, Foggy. Seriously, I’m fine. I don’t know why you have it in your head that I can’t take care of myself when I have a simple cold.”

“Maybe because it makes you kind of actually really blind? I’ve seen you stumble around, bumping into things, which you never do. This is totally messing with you, I can tell.”

Matt sighed, because Foggy was all too right. But he didn’t want to admit it.

“It’s getting better. How much more often do I need to say it?” It was still a lie, but, well...

Foggy looked at him for a long moment. “Okay, let’s pretend I believe that and leave it at that, okay?”

He took his jacket and scarf and turned around at the entrance to the corridor one last time. He pointed a finger at Matt. “Call me. I want you to check in. At least once a day. Okay?”

Matt gave him what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I will. Now leave.”

And as soon as Foggy was out of earshot, Matt gave in to the violent coughing fit he’d tried to keep in check for the last fifteen minutes. It made him pant, the couch shifting dizzyingly beneath him as he tried to get a grip on the lightheadedness that threatened to overwhelm him. Yes, this would be a fun weekend.

——

Foggy texted from Ohio. A lot. Matt tried his best to respond to each and every one of them.

He slept a great deal, dozed off on the couch, and got bored as effin’ hell because he couldn’t concentrate on anything.

By Saturday evening, he actually did feel better. Good enough for warm food and his senses to recover to some semblance of normal. And God, did he itch to go out there! The cool night air, the sorrows of the city.

He took a shower and got the suit out of the box.

——

Yeah, that hadn’t been such a great plan. The whole going-out-with-your-senses-kinda-fucked in just above freezing temperatures had backfired quickly.

He’d botched one of the jumps across his Hell’s Kitchen rooftops, and his ribcage and arm took the brunt of the blow. It was raining too—that hellish mixture of rain and snow—and by the time he managed to pick himself up to limp home, it was past 3 AM, and Matt was of the firm belief that his core body temperature couldn’t be above 50 °F.

Barely managing to peel himself out of the suit, he curled up in bed with all the blankets he could find.

He woke up the next day with his covers sticking to his naked torso, a sheen of sweat on his skin, his body blazing. Everything was fuzzy, and something dinged to his right. It took him a few, long seconds to realize it was his phone.

He scrambled to find it, knocked it to the floor in the process, and groped around for it for much too long before he finally had it in his hands. It felt like an alien object that he’d never touched in his life.

Foggy had left him three voice messages in the last three hours. And, shit, was it really already 2 PM?

A violent shiver made the hairs all over his body stand up, and he bundled the blankets closer around him. Then the coughing started, and it didn’t stop, and he was gasping for air like he’d never be able to breathe again in his life.

It took him three tries to finally listen to Foggy’s voicemails. The essence of them was the usual, “Hey, just checkin’ in, how are you, call me back.”

He didn’t. He tried to text something vaguely reassuring, not quite certain it was making any sense. He hoped it did.

Foggy called again two minutes later. Matt let it go to voicemail. And then he had an epiphany, because he really didn’t want Foggy to know that he actually felt like he may not be able to make it to the bathroom, but he really fucking had to, because his bladder was complaining.

He pulled up the WhatsApp menu and dictated, “Lost my voice, can’t talk. Am okay. Don’t worry. Enjoy your trip.” It took him a long time to make sure the text actually said what it was supposed to. He sent it off. Foggy didn’t call again.

The trip to the bathroom—the inevitable wasn’t to be delayed any longer—drained all of his reserves. Matt slept for the rest of the day, trying to ignore the feeling of a belt being pulled ever tighter around his chest.

——

Sometime in the middle of the night, he woke up with a wild and disorienting panic jerking his body upright.

He couldn’t breathe. He was sucking in breaths, but they barely did anything, and he panted, and panted, and curled his fists into his sheets until his knuckles were white and his mind was taken over by frantic anxiety and a paralyzing helplessness.

Foggy. What would Foggy do if he was here?

 _Breathe,_ he would say. He’d place his palms against Matt’s back. _Just breathe, Murdock. Nice and easy. Slow breaths. In and out. Come on, you can do this._

Maybe he could. He tried. And tried again. It worked, to a degree. At least so far that he didn’t think he was suffocating anymore.

His chest still hurt with every intake of breath, and the coughing didn’t help.

He didn’t get any more sleep that night, just rode out the hours until he felt it was late enough to call Claire.

He was shocked by how hard it was to choke out the words between his labored breaths. She immediately knew this was bad. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she told him.

Matt wasn’t sure how long it took for her to show up. She had a key now, which was good because he was sure he wouldn’t be able to make it to the door. She never used it unless she was specifically asked to come.

What eventually woke him from his feverish haze was a hissed, “Jesus, Matt,” and a cool hand on his forehead.

He was still panting, still feeling like he was never drawing enough oxygen into his lungs. He started panicking again. This was just like after the accident. He had no control, he didn’t know what to do, how to fight it. He was losing this battle in an ever uphill struggle.

“Shh,” he heard her soft voice, “Don’t panic, Matt. Slow breaths. Nice and easy.”

She wasn’t Foggy, but she’d have to do. He tried as best as he could.

“There we go,” she finally said, her hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. It felt like a thousand tiny electroshocks on his skin.

Something cold touched his chest, and he flinched. Hard.

“Sorry,” she said. “I should have— I need to listen to your chest. Can you take deep breaths for me?”

He tried. It didn’t work, his lungs just wouldn’t expand enough, and the panic came floating back to crowd along the edges of his perception. It was only her hand on his arm that kept it at bay, and he tried with all he had left to focus on that.

“I’m going to take your temperature. I’ll be sticking a nozzle into your ear.”

There was a beep, and a displeased grunt. “Hundred-and-four point five. Matt, that’s really high. I think you have pneumonia. How did this happen?”

How. Happen. How, how, how? The words repeated in his mind, and— what was she asking? “I don’t know,” he mumbled. Or that’s what he thought he mumbled. There were blue spots in front of his eyes, and that was distracting. He never saw colors this bright anymore. Was it even blue?

“Cold,” he managed to eke out. “Got worse.”

“Yeah, by you gallivanting around outside at night, no doubt. You need to be in the hospital, Matt.”

“No!” he snapped. “No hospit—“

That’s as far as he came, before the next coughing fit hit. Claire pulled him into a sitting position, held him up as he worked through it.

Her tone wasn’t any less chastising when he was done. “I don’t have the kinds of medication you need to treat this. You need to be on oxygen. Your lungs are full of crap, and if that fever goes any higher, it’ll burn through your brain cells. I can’t even tell if it’s viral or bacterial, but you should be getting antibiotics, if just to avoid secondary infection.”

Antibiotics. Yes. He had those. Somewhere. “Bathroom,” he whispered.

“You need to go to the bathroom?”

“No.” A breath. “Anti—“ Another breath. “Biotics.”

The mattress tilted slightly. He couldn’t make sense of it. The blue spots undulated and transformed to light brown. What was that color called again? Umber? Sienna?

Another strange sensation on his arm. It was Claire’s hand. “Matt? Stay with me, okay?”

“’k.”

“I found the meds. Those’ll work. I want you to take them, along with some Advil. Have you already taken any today?”

“No.”

“Have you had anything to drink at all?”

Had he? He couldn’t remember. “Don’t know.”

She hissed something under her breath that he couldn’t make out. Then she was gone again—how long, he couldn’t tell. Time seemed meaningless. Her voice drifted back through the haze.

“Hold out your hand and take these pills. I have a glass of water, too. Can you do that?”

Yes. Yes, he could. He hoped. Claire helped. And the water down his throat felt so good. How had he not had anything to drink today?

“Easy,” Claire said, when he downed the whole glass. “Matt, listen, we need to get your fever down. The Advil should help, but I’m gonna get a cloth and some water so we can cool down your body, okay?”

He didn’t protest, wasn’t sure what he wasn’t protesting. Everything was blurry and hazy, and everything hurt. His chest was tight, too tight, and the mild state of panic was still bubbling just under the surface.

He vaguely became of aware of the covers being peeled back and wet things sweeping over his skin. The cool breeze felt good, but the shivers that followed didn’t.

Still, he endured, because at least he wasn’t alone, and there would be help if he suffocated, and nothing mattered anymore anyway. He drifted and drifted, and then there was only darkness.

——

It was noises that woke him. Voices.

He tried to concentrate, tried to filter out who it was. Male and female. Claire. She had been here earlier. He had a hazy recollection of that.

And Foggy. Always Foggy. He said the name out loud. Tried, in any case.

“Matt?” Foggy sounded worried. Upset.

“Foggy?” he tried again.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

The mattress dipped. Something on his arm. A hand. He wanted to cry, maybe. Or breathe. “How long?”

“How long what?”

“What day...?”

“It’s Monday. How long have you been like this?”

Matt tilted his head, tried to get a sense of his surroundings. Breathing was still the hardest thing he had to do. But he was home. Foggy was here. Everything would be okay. “I don’t— I don’t remember.”

“Claire’s been here all day. How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” he moaned.

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Pneumonia? Jesus, Matt, you should be in the hospital.”

“No,” he said immediately, “no h—“

“Hospital, I know.” The hand on his arm squeezed a little. “This is bad. _Really_ bad. Your fever has come down a little, but it’s still really high. And, fuck, man, you can hardly breathe. You’re scaring the shit out of me right now.” Foggy’s voice seemed to crack there at the end.

“It’s okay,” he huffed out. “Claire will help.”

“No.” More vehemence. “It’s _not_ okay. And, no offense, but Claire isn’t a doctor. I can’t believe she didn’t call 911 this morning already.”

“No,” Matt reiterated. “Foggy, _please_.”

Foggy was silent, and there was Claire’s voice. Low and appeasing. He couldn’t make out what she was saying. The mattress shifted again, and Foggy was gone.

He needed Foggy. No hospital. He wouldn’t be able to make it through that. He wrenched out Foggy’s name, urgent and desperate, and the panic came back.

And then Foggy was there again, his hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Matt, Jesus Christ, breathe. I’m here. I’m not leaving. No hospital for now. Just breathe, okay?”

The world shifted and waned around him, drifting in and out. He needed air and couldn’t get it, until Foggy pulled him upright and sat behind him. He placed one hand on Matt’s diaphragm.

“Feel my hand. Make it move. Deep breaths. In and out. You can do this, Matt.”

He wanted to. He needed to. He had to. For Foggy. And then the coughing started, and Foggy was holding him, and they were both crying, and it was the worst thing Matt would experience for a long time.

——

The night was an endless series of indistinct fragments. Foggy was there, always nearby, sitting in the armchair by the bed, pacing around, wiping the sweat off his brow, wiping down his torso and legs with a lukewarm washcloth.

He gave him pills to swallow, water to drink, helped him to the bathroom. He whispered meaningless things to Matt, helped him through the coughing fits, rubbed eucalyptus ointment on his chest and feet.

Matt’s fever finally broke the next morning. The relief emanating from Foggy was both tangible and audible.

And finally, Foggy could breathe, too. With a jittery hand, Matt reached for the mug of lukewarm peppermint tea on the nightstand. And even if things were still dull and his head wrapped in layers of cotton wool, he could tell that Foggy had fallen asleep on the couch in the living room. It gave Matt the opportunity to pull his mouth into the tiniest of smiles.

He let his head sink back and tried to take stock of the situation. His chest was congested. It was hard to pull air into his lungs, but not as hard as it had been. His body was fighting off the fever, his blood pulsing against his temple to lodge the headache there that was clearly making itself known.

He smelled the sharp tang of eucalyptus. There was a jar with ointment on his nightstand where the scent was stronger. An ear thermometer lay next to it. Three pill bottles, bottled water. His smartphone. He took it. It was dead, the battery drained.

He felt gross and sweaty. His hair was greasy. He was a mess. He really wanted a shower, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do it alone. And Foggy deserved sleep, so Matt just let his thoughts drift, the quiet sounds of the city lulling him into a light doze.

——

“Come on, Murdock, up you go.”

It was more than slightly embarrassing, but really couldn’t be helped. Matt and walking without aid would take another day or two to become a thing again, and so Foggy was there for him all the way.

Matt tried not to cry with the sheer gratitude of it.

“You can leave me alone in here,” he told Foggy, once he had deposited him on the closed toilet seat.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, positive.”

“Don’t be a hero. Holler if you need me. I mean it, Matt. I’m not stitching together lacerations. I’ll let you bleed out on the floor. I swear.”

Matt grinned. Foggy’s sense of humor was back. That was a good thing.

Foggy was gone, then came back with an armful of clothes. T-shirt, underpants, sweat pants, socks, a hoodie. The soft ones. Matt’s smile widened. “Thanks.”

“Seriously, man. I’m worried you’ll slide down the shower wall. Are you really sure you don’t need me in there? I mean, I’ve already seen you naked. No need for false modesty here.”

Matt needed his boss-dad voice. He wasn’t sure it was gonna shine through. “How many more times, Foggy? Go away. I will call you if I need help. I can leave the door open if that makes you feel better.”

“Okay, fine. Go shower. You look terrible. Take it from a sighted person.”

It took frickin’ forever for Matt to actually make it into the shower, but he was determined. Baby steps. He hated it.

And the warm water on his body felt so, _so_ good. He may have actually let out a little hum of pleasure of the water coursing through his hair, washing out the suds of shampoo. He felt like a new person afterwards.

Wet hair sticking up from his head and fully clothed, he emerged from the bathroom on unsteady feet, holding on to the doorframe.

Foggy reprimanded him right away.“Oh no, this ain’t gonna fly. You’re gonna blow-dry your hair. We’re not taking any chances.” He was by Matt’s side in a few quick steps, steering him back into the bathroom. “Here, sit down, I’ll help you.”

Matt’s weak protests were to no avail, so he let Foggy do his thing. Hell, they’d done worse things together in college. Granted, usually there was a good amount of alcohol involved, but Matt was vulnerable and clingy, and warm air and Foggy’s fingers in his hair felt good. He closed his eyes and let the small smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

By the time Foggy switched off the dryer, he was actually disappointed it was over already. Foggy told him, “You still look like death warmed over, but there’s definite improvement. Now let’s go lie back down, I’ll warm up some chicken soup.”

“Couch,” Matt said.

“Okay. Hold on, let me get my shit off it.”

Matt shuffled over to the couch at snail speed. Foggy went into the bedroom and started changing Matt’s sheets. Matt protested.

“Foggy, you don’t need to do that.”

His voice was 200% exasperation. “Yes, I do. You sweated through all of it three times over and then some. It’s gross and disgusting, and you can repay me for it the next time one of us has to actually meet with Judge Pearson in person again.” Cause Pearson hated Nelson & Murdock. The feeling was mutual.

And, well, Foggy had a point. His bed must be gross. He may need a new mattress after all this, once his senses fully came back.

Matt settled on the couch and leaned his head back, reveling in his newfound unslobbiness, and just listened. There was something inherently comforting in Foggy puttering about in the bedroom, humming a little tune to himself. Off-key, of course. It was only interrupted by another spell of coughing, and, shit, his midriff hurt like crazy from all the muscle spasms.

Foggy stepped closer, lingered unsurely in the doorway to the living room. “You still don’t sound too great.”

“No shit, Foggy. There’s a whole lot of crap still lodged in there.” He tapped his own chest.

“Yeah, thanks for _that_ mental image. And you know what? There’s breathing exercises you’re supposed to do.”

“Did Claire tell you that?”

“She mentioned it. Google enlightened me.”

“It frightens me that you get your medical advice on the internet.”

“Hey, you’re the one who puppy-eyed me into not taking you to the hospital. Something I still regret. So let’s do this, all right?”

“Do what?”

“Your breathing exercises.”

“What, _now_?”

“Yeah. You want your lung function back, right? It says every four hours. I have it all here.” Foggy took his smartphone out of his pocket.

Matt just groaned. Foggy started reading it out aloud. “‘ _Rhythmic Breathing and Coughing. During recovery, the patient performs rhythmic breathing and coughing every 4 hours. Before starting the breathing exercise, the patient should tap lightly on the chest to loosen mucus within the lung._

“ _If available, a caregiver,”_ Foggy pointed at himself, “That’s me, in case you couldn’t tell, _‘...should also tap on the patient's back. The patient inhales rhythmically and deeply three or four times. The patient then coughs as deeply as possible with the goal of producing sputum.’_ Oh, gross.”

“That doesn’t sound like fun.”

“You feeling up to it?”

Matt shook his head. “No. But let’s do it anyway.”

Foggy watched another YouTube video before they attempted it. Matt started knocking on his chest, while Foggy did the same thing all over his back. It hurt, and it didn’t help that there was a sizeable bruise adorning his right ribcage from his fall the other night. But he pushed through it, and when Foggy told him to breathe deeply, he couldn’t.

It hurt, and his lungs wouldn’t let him, and even before Foggy could say, “Cough,” he did. He couldn’t control it.

“Cough deeply,” he instructed.

He tried. Failed.

“Deeply,” Foggy repeated.

“I… can’t,” he let out between gasping breaths.

“You’re supposed to loosen your sputum.”

“I…” Cough, “know.”

Foggy’s hand came to rest on Matt’s back. “Wanna try again?”

He couldn’t. He was already spent. “Maybe later?” he managed to squeeze out.

“Okay.”

Foggy shifted his position behind him, came around to his side to softly touch his forehead. “You look a little flushed. Maybe some more Advil.”

 _A little flushed_ didn’t quite cover it. He felt like he’d run a marathon. His body was giving out under him, and there was nothing he could do.

Foggy got up and came back with his freshly made duvet. “Lie down,” he instructed, then draped the covers over Matt. “Rest, Murdock. You need it.”

Matt couldn’t protest, and was already half asleep by the time Foggy squeezed his knee for good measure.

——

Foggy’s voice was a constant in his life now, and Matt was so grateful for it. It permeated softly into his consciousness, and Matt just listened to its soft lilt.

“He’s resting right now. He’ll be okay.”

Silence. A faint voice at the other end. Concentrating on it was hard. Karen. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, and then it was Foggy again.

“Yeah, it pretty much knocked him on his ass.” Silence. Then, “I don’t think he’s in any shape to have visitors, but I’ll ask him when he wakes up.”

Matt stirred on the couch. “I woke up.”

Foggy angled his body towards Matt. “Hold on,” he said into the phone, then walked over to him, “It’s Karen, do you want to talk to her?”

Did he? It seemed like so much effort. But he probably owed her that. “Yeah.” He held out his hand.

“Hey,” he said into the phone when Foggy gave it to him. It sounded a lot raspier than he’d anticipated.

“Hey, Matt. How are you feeling?”

He shrugged. “Like shit…?”

She laughed a little laugh. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Better though, right?”

“Than being passed out for two days without a clear recollection of passage of time? Yes.”

She aw’ed. “I’d love to see you, tell me when you’re well enough to have visitors around.”

“In a day or two, maybe?” He was glad that Foggy had said no already. It was bad enough when Foggy saw him hitting rock bottom.

“Tell me if you need anything, all right? I make a mean Irish stew.”

“Thank you, Karen. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, any time. Feel better, okay?”

“Yeah, thanks. Hold on, I think Foggy wants to talk to you again.”

Well, it was a cop-out on Matt’s part, but Foggy knew to take the hint. He took the phone from Matt and they wrapped up their conversation in a few more sentences. Matt didn’t bother to listen and reached for the glass of water on the table.

Foggy then came back and sat down in one of the armchairs. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Matt said noncommittally.

“That’s the bullshit Daredevilly answer. Try that again.”

“What do you want to hear? Like a steam train rolled over my chest and my body is a lump of wet rags?”

“Yeah, that sounds more like it. What do you need?”

He wasn’t even sure. Not more sleep, he’d had enough of that. “Distraction.”

“A movie, maybe? Something to read? Audiobook?”

Oh God, that sounded so high maintenance. Matt turned to lie on his side to face Foggy. “Just tell me about your weekend.”

“The part where I came back and found my bone-headed best friend almost dying from pneumonia?”

Matt closed his eyes. Yeah, that talk. They were gonna have _that talk_ at some point. He didn’t feel strong enough to tackle it. “Foggy, can we please not do this right now?”

Foggy seemed to soften somewhat. “Yeah. Okay.” There was a ‘but’ there he didn’t say out loud.

Matt nudged him, “Tell me about Ohio. Your parents. Candace. What’s she up to these days?”

And Foggy did, in all the little detail, down to the food they’d had and the board games they’d played. It felt good. A little taste of all the things Matt had never had in his youth. He loved the Nelsons. They’d welcomed him with open arms into their family. He’d spent many Thanksgivings and Christmases there.

When he was done recounting their recent adventures, Foggy got the laptop and they watched _Shrek_ with audio descriptions. They’d watched it before, and Matt only followed at most a third of the dialogue, but the world finally felt real around him again. That was a huge effin’ achievement.

——

Foggy stayed the night despite Matt’s vehement protestations.

“Foggy, my coughing will keep you up all night.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Okay, maybe I do, but not as much as knowing that you’re okay and have someone helping you get around.”

“It’s fine, I can walk on my own now. You’ve seen me do it.”

“Yeah, barely. And then you pant for air like you just ran up and down all hundred-and-two stories of the Empire State at record speed. I’m not leaving you alone.”

“You should at least go get a change of clothes, take a shower.”

“Oh, I’ve done that.”

“When?”

“Earlier, when you were passed out on the couch. Claire was watching you for a while.”

“Claire was here?”

“Yeah. Apparently you slept through all of it.”

Matt sighed. “Did she say anything?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.”

Foggy shrugged. “Give you more fluids, make you take the antibiotics, feed you, take your temperature, help you cough up gross things wedged in your lungs. Make sure I don’t give you the third degree until you’re fully lucid. That kind of thing?”

“Yeah, that sounds like Claire.”

“She’s pretty great.”

“She is.”

“Speaking of which, did you drink your fluids?”

“Yeah, a whole bottle.” He indicated it on the coffee table.

“Antibiotics?”

“An hour ago.”

“Hungry?”

“No.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not. You fed me crackers not half an hour ago.”

“Temperature?”

“Yeah, last time I checked, I still can’t read digital displays, and this one doesn’t talk.”

Foggy got it from Matt’s bedside table. “Incoming,” he said.

There was a plastic nozzle in his ear, a beep, then a half-satisfied grunt. “Hundred point five. You’re getting there. That leaves the gross stuff in your lungs. We could give that another go. What do you say?”

He didn’t want to. Foggy insisted. It still sucked big time, but it worked this time around. And, God, it was gross. Matt had to gag at the bitter taste of the shit that dislodged from his lungs, and then Foggy was there, and he rubbed Matt’s back while he puked the remains of the crackers into a plastic bucket.

And it made him pant, and that made him cough, and in the end he couldn’t say which was worse.

When he was finally done, barely enough energy left to keep himself upright, Foggy hissed, “Jesus, Matt, you don’t do things by halves, do you?”

And Foggy was gone again, the toilet flushed in the bathroom, he rinsed the bucket, and tentatively placed it on the floor next to the couch’s armrest. He handed Matt a glass of water and a wet washcloth. The seat cushions dipped, and then there was Foggy’s warm body next to him, all quiet, and Matt wasn’t sure what to make of it.

He heard the tiniest hitch in Foggy’s breath, so he croaked, “What is it, Foggy?”

Foggy stayed silent a moment longer. His voice sounded strained. “I promised I wouldn’t do this, and I don’t know how _not_ to do it.”

“You’re upset.”

“Yeah, no shit. I’m fucking furious. It hurts to see you like this. It really fucking hurts.”

Matt’s face twitched with all the emotion he couldn’t get a handle on. Foggy just plowed on. “I don't understand, Matt. I don't understand why you think you can't call me with this shit. You were _this_ close to dying, and don’t you fucking downplay it, okay?”

“Foggy...”

“No, Matt. Let me finish. Because I don’t understand why you think you need to do it all by yourself. I specifically asked you to reach out before I left, and, dammit, I should never have left in the first place. Because I knew this would happen. But then you gave me your bullshit reassurances that it wouldn’t, and that you were fine, and I just… I wanted to believe you. I really fucking did.”

“And I _was_ fine.”

“Until you decided it would be a fantastic idea to go patrolling in your little red suit in the freezing cold, right? And then it was all coughing and raging fever, and, oh, I forgot: almost dying. And not calling me. You lied when you said you lost your voice, didn’t you? Because you knew I would be able to tell, and I’d board the next flight home, and... goddammit, Matt!”

“You were talking about that weekend for months. They’re your family. I didn’t want to—“

“Bullshit, Matt!” he snapped. “ _We_ are family. You and me, we’re— God, I don’t get why you don’t see it. You mean the world to me. I couldn't stand to lose you.”

He heard Foggy sucking in a breath that he hitched right up as a sob. He shifted his weight and then Matt felt himself enveloped in an embrace, Foggy’s arms crushing around him.

Another coughing fit bubbled up that he couldn’t control, but Foggy held on fast, and Matt had no choice than to huff his violent puffs of breath into Foggy's clavicle. Foggy’s arms pulled him close and kept rubbing soft circles on his back as Matt rode it out.

When he was through, Matt let his forehead sag against Foggy's shoulder. It hurt, and it felt good, and something clenched in his stomach that he had no control over. Foggy’s hand was still rubbing his back, and finally, Matt silently let the tears flow.

“It's okay, Matt. I'm here.” Emotion choked Foggy’s voice, but Foggy was always the strong one, the one to push through it. “And I will be. Always. I need you to call me when you're in trouble. Any time. Day or night, no matter what I'm doing or where I am. Do you understand me?”

Matt's voice was low, barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

“Good,” Foggy whispered back and finally released his hold on Matt. His voice was lighter. “For the record... you're a dick.”

That elicited a small chuckle from Matt. “I am. I don't know why you put up with me.”

But it wasn’t the expected jovial retort he got back. Foggy's voice was all sternness and insistence. “Yes, you do. Because I'm your fucking best friend, and because I care about you. And I'm gonna say it this once, because fuck you, Murdock, but I love you. As a friend. More than you know. And don't you ever dare say you don't deserve it, because you do.”

Matt was crying again, and Foggy just put his hand at the nape of Matt's neck, squeezed reassuringly, and waited. Waited for Matt's hitching breath to quiet down, for his tears to stop.

They did after a long time, and Matt wiped his hands over his face in a vague attempt to compose himself. “Thank you,” he said in a low voice.

“Yeah. Don’t do it again. Ever.”

Matt didn’t feel like making promises he couldn’t keep. Not that he had intentions of letting that happen again. Pneumonia wasn’t an experience he ever wanted to relive, that much he’d learned in the last few days.

Foggy’s voice pulled him from his reverie. “Now come here, Murdock, let’s get you to bed. You still look like death warmed over.”

“I still _feel_ like death warmed over.”

Matt could tell Foggy was scrutinizing him. “Do you want to eat a few more crackers after… you know… the whole upchucking thing?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Well then, buddy. To the bedroom with you.”

——

Foggy left after breakfast the next day, and came back in the evening with Karen in tow. To be fair, he’d asked Matt for permission to bring her—by text—and Matt had said yes.

There was a knock, and then Foggy let themselves in, announcing their presence with a, “Matt? We’re coming in. Cover yourself if you’re not decent.”

Matt put on his sunglasses and heaved himself off the couch, still sluggish, shuffling over to the wall separating the corridor from the living room. “Come on in.”

Foggy had plastic bags that contained warm food. It smelled like egg drop soup, chicken ginger rice porridge and slice fish congee. He navigated around Matt and headed straight for the kitchen.

Karen hung back, a little more hesitant than Foggy. She’d only been here twice before. “Hey,” she greeted him. “Still among the living, huh?”

He gave her a smile and a shrug. “Yeah. Apparently I’m too tough a cookie.”

Foggy’s voice filtered back to them. “Don’t believe him. It was sheer luck and awesome nursing. Also, you burnt the cookie, Murdock, raging fever and all. You’re damaged goods. Now come over here before the food gets cold.”

They both laughed and joined Foggy by the table. Matt smiled briefly when she let her fingers brush over his shoulder.

Dinner was nice. Homey. Comfortable. There was easy banter, and Matt felt like a version of himself again. A defective version, but one that felt whole.

They told Karen the edited version of the pneumonia story: A head cold from volunteering with kids (which he didn’t even have to lie about), and then an outdoor fundraiser at his church that had turned out to be cold and wet and not conducive to a budding sinus infection.

“You need to take better care of yourself, Matt,” Karen chided lightly when they were done with dinner.

Foggy only confirmed this. “I’ve been telling him that for years. Maybe now he’ll start to listen.”

“Oh,” she said, “Hold on, I have something for you.”

She went to extract something from her bag, then lightly touched Matt’s hand so that he could hold it out. The object he subsequently found himself grasping was soft and furry, about eight by eight inches. It was reminiscent of a small pillow, except it had five appendages and two tiny flaps sticking out at one end. On one side he could feel embroidered lines and three buttons.

Karen quickly explained, “It’s a cat. Cassie the Cat, to be precise. She has a Band-Aid on her nose, and a rather sad pout on her face. And, here, she comes with a prescription.”

She handed Matt a little plastic tube with a screw top. He extracted a rolled up sheet of laminated paper from it. There was no Braille, and Karen also helped out with that. “I know you can’t read it, but your Braille labeler scares me, so I'm just gonna read it to you, and Foggy can confirm I'm not making this up.”

She took the paper from him and started reading, “ _‘Prescription. Cassie the Cat is poorly. She crashed into a wall chasing mice. Nurse Nibbles’_ —that’s the mouse with a medical bag that is depicted there in the bottom right corner— _‘Nurse Nibbles says: Stroke Cassie on the head and give her lots of cuddles and fuss. Cassie will soon get better if you give her lots of love and attention.’_ I signed it, there, at the bottom.”

He ran his fingers over the embroidered face of the cat again, feeling the knobbly eyes, the nose, the Band-Aid, the mouth and whiskers. There was a smile on his face.

Karen added, “Cassie is orange, with dark red stripes on the sides and the back. They’re painted on, I think you can feel them.”

Foggy supplied, “Really, she’s super cute. Kinda looks like you when you’re pouting.”

“I don’t pout,” he protested.

“Oh, you totally do. _All_ the time.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, man. When you don’t get the good jelly beans because I picked out all the yellow ones, or when your favorite Barista isn’t working, or, I don’t know, when I’m bringing all the best movies and the one _you_ wanted isn’t among them.”

“I d—“

“No protesting,” Foggy interrupted. “You have the Murdock Pout trademarked, and we’re not discussing this.”

Matt sat the cat back on the table. “Thank you, Karen. That’s really sweet. I’ll give her a good home. Lots of cuddles and fuss, of course.”

He could feel he was getting a little teary, and tried to swallow it down. It dissolved quickly into a cough, one he could tell was startling Karen.

When it finally ebbed, she said, “Jesus, Matt, that sounds terrible.”

“You should have seen him two days ago. This is actual improvement,” Foggy stated. “Matt, have you done your breathing exercises?”

“Breathing exercises?” she asked.

“Yeah. To get his lung volume back up. And, you know, all the gross shit out.”

Matt cut in, “Can we not talk about gross shit in my lungs when we’ve just eaten, please?”

“Can we not avoid the question?” Foggy countered.

“Stop mothering, Foggy. I’ve done them. And, yes, they did what they were supposed to. I still hate it. Change of topic.”

Foggy got up and took the pile of dishes over to the kitchen sink. Karen joined him. “Here, let me help.”

And then Foggy shot Matt a look. Or something that seemed like it might be a look. “Murdock, you’re staying put.”

There was swooshing of running water, cupboard doors opening and closing, the smell of dishwashing detergent, soft clanking of chinaware and cutlery. Matt’s fingers found the plush toy again, and he sought out the seam in the back, the little bow at the top of the head, one of the ears that he rubbed between his forefinger and thumb. The fabric there was different, kinda like satin.

Foggy and Karen were softly chattering on about something that he didn’t bother listening to until he thought he heard his name.

“Matt?” Karen repeated.

“Hm?”

“Are you zoning out on us? Should we leave?”

“No, sorry, I was just—”

“Fondling your cat.” She sounded amused.

His mouth drew into a sheepish grin. “Well, it did say to give her lots of attention.” He put Cassie down on the table again, a foot away this time, out of reach. “What is it that you wanted to know?”

“A couch for the office. Foggy’s been advocating this for weeks. Your thoughts?”

“Where would we put a couch?”

Foggy whirled around. “My office, of course!”

Karen echoed, “Of course.”

“Free usage for any Nelson & Murdock employee unless already occupied.”

Matt considered this. “We barely have enough money to afford our secretary. We should invest in chairs that don’t fold and are actually comfortable to sit in.”

Foggy sighed. “Always with the levelheadedness. No, wait, I retract that. You know why. You make poor life choices at the best of times.”

Karen confirmed, “No couch. Case closed. I will shop for affordable desk chairs.”

“Buy a shockingly pink one for Matt.”

Matt let out a chuckle, then a short cough. “Lemon chrome yellow, if you must.”

Foggy turned back to the dishes. “Karen, are you recording this? I want it on the record. Lemon chrome. It’d go well with your office wall.”

“Why, what color is it?”

Foggy deadpanned, “A kind snot green, but more obnoxious. I think they were trying to go for pastel olive, but that didn’t really go so well. Why do you think we got the price that we did?”

“Seriously?”

Karen laughed, and Foggy let out an annoyed huff.

“What?” Matt asked.

Karen chuckled again. “Matt, your office wall is white.”

“Traitor,” Foggy hissed at her.

Matt mouthed a _‘Thank you’_ to Karen. Foggy sighed. “And now it’s a conspiracy against the Nelson. I officially hate you both.”

“No, you don’t,” Karen snickered.

“Okay, maybe I don’t, because I’m apparently the biggest chump on the planet, and I secretly I love you both, but seriously. I want a couch. Lemon chrome, for all I care.”

“Let’s put it on the wish list,” Matt said.

Foggy nodded once. “Done.”

Foggy handed out soda from the fridge, and they relocated to the couch, and Matt loved every minute of having his little family there with him. Yes, the coughing sucked, and he was tired as hell, and still weak and fuzzy-brained, but there was a warm glow around all of it now.

When he started dozing off with his head against the armrest and a nice fluffy blanket draped over him that Foggy made sure had found its way there, the two of them took their leave. While Karen put on her coat in the corridor, Foggy crouched down next to Matt’s head.

“You want me to come back later, stay the night?”

Matt hummed. “No, Foggy. You need to get some real sleep in your own bed. You’ve done so much. Get some rest. Please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. My fever’s gone, I’m mobile, I’m taking the meds, I swear I’m doing the exercises, and I just really want you to know how much I appreciate all of this.”

Foggy put a hand on the seat cushion, just shy of touching Matt. “Shut up, you old softie. I’ll be back tomorrow. Hang in there.”

Matt nodded. “Thanks, Foggy. For tonight. For everything.”

Foggy got up. “Any time, buddy. Call me if—“

“I need anything. I know. I will. Now go.”

Karen called over, lifted her hand in an aborted wave, “Bye, Matt. Feel better.”

“Thank you, Karen.”

And then they were gone. Matt tried to follow them down the stairs, but his senses quickly faltered from the sheer exhaustion. He fell asleep right where he was.

——

It was two days later that Foggy was back at his apartment, letting himself in with his keys. Matt was only half awake, sluggishly tracing Foggy’s movements. He was carrying something. He couldn’t tell what.

Matt shifted slightly on his bed, curling a little further into himself. It was nice and warm under the covers, even if it was barely 4 PM. He was sleeping way too much for his own taste, but his body just wouldn’t have it any other way. His chest and abs still ached from the constant assault of his spasming muscles, but at least it was easier to breathe now. A lot. The breathing exercises helped.

Foggy appeared in the door, and there was something... Matt wasn’t sure what. “Are you watching me sleep?”

Definite amusement swung in Foggy’s voice. “I am. You’re clutching Karen’s cat.”

Oh yeah. The silly toy. How had that happened? It had been on the nightstand. He couldn’t quite figure out how it had gotten from there to being pressed to his chest. He quickly put it back on the nightstand.

Foggy spoke again. “You’re not usually the touchy-feely plush toy kinda guy. Should I be worried?”

He tried to make his voice sound manly. “If you have to know, it smells nice. A little like you and Karen. I'm fine, Foggy. Go away.”

Foggy just laughed.

And for good measure, Matt added, “If you tell Karen, I will do terrible things to you.”

“Like what? Poke your Daredevil horns into my soft tissue?”

Matt gave an impression of his best menacing undertone. “Judge Pearson. Do I need to say more?”

Foggy lifted his arms in defense. “Oh dude. You wouldn’t do that. Not the Pearson from Hell. I won’t tell Karen. Anyone. Three hundred pinky swears.”

They both laughed, and then Foggy came in and gave him a good-natured thump on the thigh. “Come on, shake it. I wanna see how far you’ve come with the Triflow, and then we’re gonna do some actual lawyering work. You still remember what that is, right?”

He groaned. Not the Triflow. The Triflow was hell. Actual lawyering work? Yes, he could definitely do that. Especially with Foggy by his side.

Nelson & Murdock, Best Friends in the World and also… Attorneys at Law.

——

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Cassie The Cat actually exists. I may or may not be a total dork and may or may not have purchased it. Ahem.
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